


sister, hide all of the way

by rxcrcfllptrs



Category: Rooster Teeth Productions RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Hunger Games AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:04:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rxcrcfllptrs/pseuds/rxcrcfllptrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re both terrified of what’s to come, so he only raises his hands once, and runs further into the wood. It’s the first casualty he’s seen, and the last one that disappears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sister, hide all of the way

**Author's Note:**

> Requested on tumblr (diveintotheragehappy), inspired by Dark Days by the Punch Brothers.

(g)

He’s practised this routine countless of times. He’s got the speed for it. He would take one pack, anything useful along the run, then search for water. All the other competitors look ruthless, but he knows most of them are as terrified as he is. Maybe some feel confident, but the fact is that everyone gets scared. When blood’s rushing in their ears and the entire world blurs and the last thing you might feel is a swing, a stab that turns into permanent blackout. He clenches his fist, token digging into his palm, and waits for the end.

* * *

 

(m)

The horn rings, and the first thing he does is pick up a canteen right beside him, and lunge for the bloodstained dagger on the ground. If he dies today, he might as well make it quick. He’s no sharpshooter, but the blood mingles with another when he knicks one on the ankle, leaving them for another to finish off. He fights someone, a girl - barely older than his little sister, but with those intelligent eyes, he’s not a fool - and pushes her off a small pack and makes for the woods, the only place he can feel at home. Somehow.

* * *

 

(r)

On the run from the bloodbath, he stumbles on another tribute, ankle heavily bleeding. Like the idiot he is, he only has so little supplies, even just for himself. The tribute looks at him with terror, and it’s a look he’s seen so many times when a gas lamp has gone out, or someone smells a leak and runs before an explosion. They’re both terrified of what’s to come, so he only raises his hands once, and run further into the wood. It’s the first casualty he’s seen, and the last one that disappears.

* * *

 

(g)

He might just be delusional, or it might be his head tricking him with rumours he’s heard from everywhere. His throat’s gone dry and he has yet to see even a trickle of water. Living in such an industrialised district gives him close to no information about this arena. The wood is quiet, but he isn’t about to let his guard down just yet. Sunset is only about to come, and he has yet to see shelter. He jumps even with the slightest snapping of a twig, or rustling from the leaves. It’s a scary place to be, but he’s built to the last.

* * *

 

(m)

The careers decided he was an asset to their alliance, but he’s not fazed one bit. He joins them, of course, but he’s always ready to flee when shit hits the fan. They all sound like they’re drunk with euphoria, stark contrast to his hunched figure, a figure for a pack mule, but he doesn’t mind. He shouldn’t, really, because this group looks very temperamental, headed by a District 4 tribute with tattoos decorating his arms, who can throw a spear and hit from a way’s away.  _I’m not scared_ , he whispers to himself.  _I’m not scared of these fucking puppets_ , when it’s night fall and they’ve set up camp and killed a few stragglers from the bloodbath.

* * *

 

(r)

On the bright side, hiking alone means that he has no one else to worry about, one less person to get attached to when it all goes to shit, one less pair of betrayed eyes when one of you have to go. But there’s an advantage, an extra pair of hands to gather food, someone to talk to when the forest is bathed in moonlght, someone who will have you back, at least for a short while. He whistles a tune for mockingjays to copy, anything to keep the sound of the canons at bay.

* * *

 

(g)

His first kill is young. A little girl wth auburn hair, who looked assured of her steps, but it just wasn’t her lucky day. A misstep and he wincees at the scream that can probably be heard for miles. It takes moments for him to drop a level and swing at her. The crunch of bones makes him grimace, and he struggles to keep down his meager meal. A cannon fires minutes after he leaves his campsite, heavy-hearted as an airship collects the mauled remains. He’s filled with a renewed sense of fear and adrenaline, it comes with the realisation that if he keeps at this, it all might become easier, and might end a twisted game in a mind too far gone. He vomits into a stream. fearful of turning into a monster, a pawn in these games.

* * *

 

(m)

They all fall down, he realises. Like trees in the fucking forest, even people fall down. It’s of different reasons most of the time, disease, surprise, shock, love, gravity. For him, it’s a sword or a spear or any sharp object that has a grip and a swing. Crack, they all come tumbling down. It takes time to hunt them down, especially with happy-go-lucky (and yet ruthless) idiots like the people he’s hunting with. It’s three cannons later when he makes up his mind to split. He can already feel it, when they’re down to their last two and they’ve set up camp in the Cornucopia. He’s already pushed leader’s buttons once. He’s stupid and reckless enough to do it again, but living is vital to winning this game and going home.

* * *

 

(r)

One eve of some night - he doesn’t keep track anymore because the very very real threat of dying in this arena is getting more and more tangible - he comes across another tribute. Wide eyed and setting up a trap for another unlucky victim, he’s lucky he didn’t come by even just a few minutes later or it could have spelled his end. Running low on supplies, they form a tentative alliance, until whoever’s left fights to the death, and maybe they can die through something they induced themselves. He introduces himself as Ray, and they reply with a Gavin. he could very well regret his decision, finally giving away his name to competition, but he’s reminded of dying, and it’s out of his mind for now.

* * *

 

(g)

He’s out of the forest, and into the meadows. With someone to watch his back, and only a small group of tributes left to kill off, he’s made the decision to stop killing idly, through traps and dirty little tricks. (He’s tired of hearing screaming, tired of waking up with bags in his eyes and guilt settling heavily in his heart for each district he’s had to kill off with his contraptions, he wants this all to end, but it’s almost done, he might be able to win this.) He and Ray against a group of careers sleeping snugly with their supplies secure. Lucky for them, he had a knowledge of almost every trap that can be made with so little supplies.

* * *

 

(m)

The light is slowly fading when his dreams of bombs and cannons and crying mothers and falling trees do, he’s not post for a few more minutes, when the sun’s risen, and it’s the perfect time to break for it. Snores could be heard inside the metal shape, and he’s pretty sure the only people awake in their general vicinity is him and the scrawny kid from District 11 that’s keeping watch ‘til daybreak. That’s when he sees the two, mouths moving in silent whispers, slight rustling in the leaves that makes the poor kid jumpy. Well, he would be sorry, if he actually gave a shit about the shrimp. Instead, he turns his attention to the two planning something, something he wants in on.

* * *

 

(r)

Onwards into the afternoon, they’ve finished their battle plan, and gained a new comrade in the process. Unruly curls and dried blood in his fingernails, he looks like a career, fights like a career, but isn’t fooled. The look of disgust on his face when they mention his previous alliance is a clear sign, and they let him in on the condition of telling them how their traps work. Michael tells them, and it ends with a fantastic explosion, strong enough to kill.

> _Who doesn’t get killed rises from the ashes, they scatter into the woods, angry tributes hot on their heels. Not only that, but even the gamemakers pull the rug from under, fanning flames with each corner of the arena, pulling them all to the center._

* * *

(g)

His lungs are filled with smoke, eyes watery, and he’s struggling to stay upright. Weakened by the games, all he wants is for this to end. The career - with too old eyes and too much to live for - is furious, spear in a white-knuckle grip. Ray and Michael emerge from a bush together, and the spear is flying, and Gavin’s first thought is  _protect_.

 

 


End file.
